


baby please come home (you should be here with me)

by KrisL



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, johnlock but your mileage may vary, may require suspension of disbelief, mild angst as can be expected, not quite a reunion, sherlock secret santa 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:36:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisL/pseuds/KrisL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had just one envelope left. It felt sterile in his hands, with a typewritten address stark against the white of the envelope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	baby please come home (you should be here with me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starlit Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Starlit+Sky).



> Sherlock Secret Santa gift for [Starlit Sky](http://thecheekbonesandthechin.tumblr.com/)! I hope you like it (and that you won’t find the references to what I’ve gleaned from your tumblr to be too stalkerish).  
> Incorporates knowledge of Sherlock minisode [Many Happy Returns](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwntNANJCOE). Assumes facts where there are only conjectures as yet (we all need more data!). Gleaned some inspiration from John’s BBC-canon [blog](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/). Fact-checked where I could; I apologise for any errata.

_They're singing deck the halls_

_But it's not like Christmas at all_

_I remember when you were here_

_All the fun we had last year_

 

It was Christmas morning.

John Watson was decidedly not feeling merry. He’d woken to his radio alarm playing _[Baby Please Come Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Hzq3gLEYAc)_ , which he thought was possibly the worst song to hear _._ Barely past eight and he’d grappled with the (darn) toaster, unsuccessfully, and all he had was a sore thumb to show for his troubles. After examining a few cupboards in the kitchen, he decided: No breakfast today then.

His new flat was tastefully-furnished, if bereft of a certain ineffable lived-in quality. It was light, bright, functional, but it wasn’t 221B.

It also made him feel quite alone.

He settled onto the couch with a few fingers of whisky, glancing at the neat stack of envelopes on the coffee table which he’d been collecting to open on Christmas Day. By their heft and size, all of them should be greeting cards. Reading season’s greetings was as good an activity to spend Christmas morning as any other, he’d thought, since he wasn’t expecting company. He hadn’t even bothered with lights and baubles this year.

John sipped at the whisky and picked up the first card. It was a simple white envelope with neat and close handwriting. Probably Molly Hooper, John thought, with some surprise. He wouldn’t have thought she’d remember his name, let alone find his new address. He opened the card, on which a pastoral scene of fields and mountains had been printed. Inside was a sweet message in pink ink that carefully did not mention _him_ :

 

> John,
> 
> I hope you’re doing well this year. Feel free to drop by the lab. I mean, alive, of course! If you ever need someone to talk to, I’ll be here. Merry Christmas from Toby (my cat!) and me, John!
> 
> Molly Hooper xx

 

John chuckled a little at her awkwardness, then thought, _Thanks Molly, but probably not. Too many memories._ He sucked in a breath and put the card aside.

Another sip, another card. This one was Greg, he could tell right away. Mostly the handwriting, but also the slight yellowing of the envelope that meant Greg had simply rummaged through his drawers to find a serviceable one. The card was simple and Lestrade’s message was more bare-bones:

 

> Hello John,
> 
> Merry Christmas! Call me anytime for a chat in the pub.
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> Greg Lestrade

 

The next envelope had a raised pattern of floral designs on a cream coloured background. The corners of John’s mouth lifted as he realised the elegant, looping handwriting could only belong to Mrs Hudson, bless her. The card inside was similarly delightful, with felt and ribbon embellishments most likely glued on by Mrs Hudson herself. As always, she was effusively maternal:

 

> Dear John,
> 
> Season’s greetings to you! How are you? I miss having you around at Baker Street, but I imagine you’ll have found a nice place by now. Please do invite me over for tea someday soon, won’t you? All the very best to you, John.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Mrs Hudson (sadly not your landlady!)

 

That did sting a bit (he tries not to think about a certain flat), inadvertent on Mrs Hudson’s part. John downed the rest of his whisky in a gulp.

His phone buzzed with a text. It was Harry, wishing him a “Merry Christmas!! x”. Typical that she didn’t go to the effort of getting a card. He sent a quick reply, “Same to you! I sent a card.”

He had just one envelope left. It felt sterile in his hands, with a typewritten address stark against the white of the envelope. Difficult one. A few names flitted through his head: DI Dimmock? Mike Stamford? Mycroft Holmes?

Nah, he dismissed them all. Sherlock’s superciliousness had probably been too much for DI Dimmock. Mike had never sent John a Christmas card in all the years they’d known each other, so why start now? And as for Mycroft Holmes, John had made it clear he didn’t want to hear from the remaining Holmes brother.

Well, nothing for it except to open it and see.

Typical adhesive on the envelope, but not a Christmas card, just a card. This too was typewritten:

 

> John,
> 
> Merry Christmas. I hope this card finds you well. Please join me for dinner on 25th December, at 8pm.

 

Underneath was a restaurant name and “See you soon.” No name or signature. John’s mouth turned dry and he wished for a second glass of whisky.

 

* * *

 

John considered not going, he really did. But this was a man who couldn’t resist the pull of adventure, however mundane (or not) dinner would turn out to be.

At 7.55pm John was standing outside the restaurant, and a fancy one at that, in his Christmas best. It was packed, as expected. The maître d' came up to him, reservation list in hand, and enquired, “Your name, sir?”

John figured he couldn’t be expected to divine a name, and said, “Uh, Watson.”

“John Watson, sir?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Very good, sir. We have a table reserved for you.”

As he was led to a prime seat next to the fountain, John couldn’t suppress the furrow in his brow. Receiving a card in the mail from an anonymous sender was one thing, and finding a table booked in his name was another. What in the world?

“Could I have a menu, please?” John asked the maître d'.

“That won’t be necessary; the reservation is inclusive of dinner for one. It’s been prepaid, sir.”

No one would be joining him, then. The card had explicitly said “join me”. As he sat there contemplating the utter mystery of this, John couldn’t help thinking this was all a bit too Holmesian for his liking. It might be Mycroft after all, he thought.

Well, as much as John resented Mycroft after… after _that_ , he did deserve a good dinner now and then. And if Mycroft wasn’t to join him, all the better.

 

* * *

 

And so John decides against leaving immediately, which means John doesn’t run into someone in a long coat and a new scarf walking in the door. That someone goes up to the upper floor as soon as he enters and spends the rest of the night watching John eat.

And if he follows John back to his new flat, at a distance, just for the sake of walking with him again under the starlit sky, no one’s the wiser.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [[tumblr post to reblog]](http://aerolock.tumblr.com/post/71105501820/sherlock-secret-santa-for-starlit-sky)


End file.
